


A Room He Is Outside Of

by HickorySmoke



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fix-it fic, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Top Sherlock, post-rbf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HickorySmoke/pseuds/HickorySmoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sherlock pushed himself to the front of his seat. Looked intently across the small space into John’s troubled face, bathed in the dancing light of the flames. He had to set it right, smooth out those wrinkles, fix everything.</em>
</p><p>After John's less-than-welcoming response to Sherlock's return, Sherlock is determined to mend things between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Room He Is Outside Of

**Author's Note:**

> Emm yep, this is basically just smut. Thanks to my good friend bumbleblu for beta reading. Any remaining ridiculousness or typos are my own, obvi~

  
    Sherlock sat on his chair with his knees tucked tight under his chin. Despite his two-year absence, little had changed at 221B. He’d noted some evidence of tampering — the skull had certainly been moved about several times, and had ended up inexplicably placed on top of a stack of military magazines. His taxidermied bat was gone. Likely a casualty of John: he had at some point clearly broken every glass item he could find in the house, and apparently the fragile casing had been too tempting to resist. Mrs. Hudson had been dusting since Sherlock’s visit several hours earlier, while he had been off delivering the news of his return to John. _Dusting_ , while he’d received his welcome home.  
  
    Truly, it couldn’t have gone much worse. The memory of John’s expression when he’d revealed himself — not joy, or pleasure, but an unpleasant mixture of rage and grief — caused an uncomfortable constriction in Sherlock’s chest. He drew a shuddery breath. _Remain calm._ Exhaled. Inhaled again, steadier this time. His lip and nose still throbbed painfully from their contact with John’s fists. He could feel the fresh blood from the reopened cuts on his back congealing coolly under his shirt.  
  
     It was no good — the more he  tried to focus on just physical sensations, the more his thoughts rerouted to thoughts of John, and the constriction in his chest was only _growing_ , not abating like it ought. Sherlock stood swiftly and stepped off the chair. He swayed slightly and was unsteady on his feet as he stalked into the kitchen. When was the last time he’d eaten? Less than forty-eight hours, certainly nothing to be concerned about under normal circumstances. Opening a cupboard at random, he discovered that his earlier deduction had been incorrect — John hadn’t broken _every_ glass item in the house, though a sizable quantity of expensive scotch had been consumed since Sherlock leapt from the roof of St. Bart’s. How long had John stayed in 221B? No more than a month. And yet…Sherlock pushed down the thoughts of John sitting by the fire with tumblers of the scotch, instead forcefully introducing the bottle to the counter. After scrounging around in the backs of the cupboards, he found a small stack of miniature waxed paper party cups. There was no ice in the freezer, but that hardly mattered — it would only dilute the alcohol.  
      
    He ultimately decided that it would be most efficacious to just bring the entire bottle with him, and settled back into his chair next to the fire, prizes in hand.  
  
~*~  
  
    “Outlier. It must be.”  
  
    Sherlock raised the ridiculous waxed cup to his lips. The skull didn’t respond from its proper perch on the mantle. Typical. Of course, a skull wouldn’t understand the _significance_ of a deduction. But Sherlock. Sherlock could understand it. John’s behavior that evening had _clearly_ been an outlier. There was no other way to reconcile his response with the data stored in Sherlock’s mind palace. After all, Sherlock had surprised John before. Disappointed him. Shocked him. Even interrupting a date with a romantic interest had precedence. John had often expressed _anger_ , but he’d always come around quickly. But this…had been different. Emotional instability, then. Why? Perhaps caused by the suddenness of Sherlock’s return? That was reasonable, he supposed, though surely the joy of having his old life back would outweigh any momentary discomfort?  
  
    Sherlock just needed to give him more time to adjust to the idea. He squinted at the clock. The digits floated about in Sherlock’s vision, but he could still make them out. One forty-seven in the morning. Would John still be awake? Surely. They had parted ways at ten twenty-three. Even with travel back to his new apartment he had had a good…hours. Some hours. Surely he would have reconciled himself to Sherlock’s return by now? He must still be awake. He wouldn’t be able to sleep. He probably felt guilty about Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock just needed to speak to him again, to explain. Tonight. In person. But how? John was far. And that woman — Mary, was it? — might be with him. But he would come…he would come if Sherlock asked him. Asked him in the right way. There was a way, Sherlock knew. He closed his eyes against the swaying, multiplying fireplaces before him and stumbled into his mind palace. Through the entry hall, up the sweeping staircase, down the hall to the left. There — the door of 221B stood before him, a room he could find in any state. He fumbled with the knob for a moment before the door swung inward. _John._  
  
    It took some searching. Sherlock tossed aside piles of hideous knit sweaters, little cassettes containing John’s praise, the sample tube containing the rush of adrenaline he’d felt when he’d deduced who had killed that terrible cabbie all those years ago. He lifted a folder bursting with John’s ridiculous blog entries and underneath found the four stones he’d etched with John’s strongest qualities  — _loyalty, courage, humor, intelligence_. They had grown smooth with handling. Sherlock picked them up one by one, placed them reverently on the mantle before resuming his search. He knew he was making a mess, but he couldn’t help it. And then, he lifted a pile of sheet music and underneath it — _there_. Exactly what he needed.  
  
    Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he groped the side table for his phone. It was new, but he had John’s number memorized. Naturally. That was natural. His fingers were too long and gangly, and difficult to control, but he managed well enough in the end.  
  
    [01:49]  
   _Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH_  
  
    [01:51]  
     _If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_  
  
    [01:52]  
     _Could be dangerous. SH_  
  
    If he calculated correctly, John should arrive in about an hour. Perhaps an hour and fifteen minutes if he suffered a crisis of indecision before departing for Baker Street. But he would come — he must. Sherlock descended back into his mind palace to wait. He tried for a bit to straighten the mess he’d made in John’s room, but ultimately had to give it up as a bad job and set to wandering the gardens.  
  
    Sherlock was slumped on a bench, lazily watching the progress of a particularly industrial honeybee make its way along the blooms of a rosebush when he heard a loud, distant crash. _Was someone here?_ Impossible, no visitors came to his mind palace. But — oh, of course. Reality. The door at 221B.  
  
    He blinked his eyes open and there was John, standing in the doorway. Breathing heavily and still wearing his coat. _Where he belonged._ Sherlock straightened himself a bit in his seat and found the clock. _Three-oh-six._ Right on time.  
  
    “Ah, John, sit down. I’ll get you something to drink.” He spoke carefully, so that his words wouldn’t blend together like they wanted to.  
  
    “What the _hell_ is this, Sherlock?”  
  
    Sherlock thought about that, then shook his head to clear away the meaningless inquiry. “I don’t understand your question.”  
  
    “Are you _drunk_?”  
  
    “Why not? _You_ are.” He couldn’t truthfully tell for certain in his current state, but John’s words had been sticking together, too, and he was pleased to see John let out an exasperated sigh. Not a denial. THey were on even footing, then. Good.  
  
    “You can’t just come sweeping back into my life and expect me to come to every beck and call, Sherlock.”  
  
    “You did, though.”  
  
    “What?”  
  
    “You did come. I called, and you” — Sherlock pointed emphatically — “came.”  
  
    It seemed like a simple enough deduction, but once again its effect was unexpected. John huffed loudly through his nose.  
  
    “No. No way are you going to — No. Fuck you. _Fuck_ you.” Sherlock watched, open-jawed, as John spun away from him and stalked towards the door. _Leaving?_ His thoughts normally shot across his neural pathways faster than lightning bolts, but now they seemed more like long goops of honey, slow and sweet, clinging together and making everything sticky. Even so, Sherlock lurched out of his chair and was across the room before he’d realized he had decided to move. His hand met some solid part of John — arm, shoulder — and held fast.  
  
    “No. No no no _John_. Wait. Just wait.” Sherlock sent out his other hand, grabbing John’s free arm and spinning him away from the door, pulling him so they stood face to face. “Sit. Please.”  
  
    “If you think I’m going to just sit here while you — you _mock_ me — Sherlock — ”  
  
    “No, no, no. I’m not going to — mock you, I’m sorry, I didn’t bring you here — I brought you here — I just wanted…I just wanted to explain. John. _Please_.”  
  
    John sat. Sherlock fetched him his own waxed paper cup, sat opposite him, clumsily poured some amber liquid, passed it to John. John didn’t comment on the ridiculous vessel, though since he was the reason _why_ there were no glasses in the flat this perhaps shouldn’t have been a surprise. And there they were, both in their chairs framing the fireplace, where they belonged, and Sherlock was a maudlin drunk. He could feel tears forming in his eyes and catching stickily on his lashes. The wetness embarrassed him, but John was sitting, and looking at him, and waiting quietly, and _here_ , and it really was more than a single person could properly take in, wasn’t it? No wonder parts of him were leaking out. Sherlock took a shaky breath to steady himself, and his mind went blank. What was he supposed to be saying? He automatically looked up at John. _John_. Who was always there when Sherlock turned to him. Who always knew just the question to ask, just the inane thing to say to alter Sherlock’s thinking so he could see. No genius, but as a conductor of light John was invaluable. Truly remarkable. _Amazing_. John would save him.  
  
    Sure enough, after a few moments John cleared his throat.  
  
    “So. Are you going to explain, or not?” When Sherlock didn’t speak immediately, he clarified. “Why…why did you do it, Sherlock? Why did you let me…let me think — ” John cut himself off abruptly, his voice catching. Sherlock felt a pang of regret. Had _he_ done this? Steady John, who never cried. Sherlock knew — the John in his mind palace had taught him the art of resisting pain when he’d been on the cusp of giving into torture. Sherlock pushed himself to the front of his seat. Looked intently across the small space into John’s troubled face, bathed in the dancing light of the flames. He had to set it right, smooth out those wrinkles, fix everything.  
  
    So he launched into an explanation. It was too long, and too emotional, and full of unimportant details, but it had been so long since he’d told anyone _anything_ true that once he started he found it difficult to stop. And John listened to every word. The snipers, the plans. The necessity of including Molly. The necessity of John believing, _really_ believing, that Sherlock was dead. The threat of Moriarty. The threat that John would be targeted in Sherlock’s absence if there was any doubt at all in the veracity of Sherlock’s death. The importance of dismantling Moriarty’s network. To keep John safe. All to keep John safe. How the risk was all worth it, it had to be. How Sherlock had thought of him always. How he’d missed his flatmate, his blogger, his doctor, his friend. He said far more than he would have without the scotch loosening his tongue, but John was so quiet and attentive and _there_ , and how many times had he wished he could say these things, when he was thousands of kilometers away and could do nothing?  
  
    Eventually, Sherlock had run out of words. The room was quiet, all crackling flames (falling low, now) and unsteady breathing. _Very_ unsteady breathing. Sherlock looked sharply across to John, and was shocked to see that his heavy sniffs were accompanied by silent tears. That wasn’t right at all.  
  
    Though his tongue was perhaps defter than when he had started speaking, the scotch was still dulling Sherlock’s decision-making faculties and he didn’t stop to think before he acted. He simply did what he wanted to do, more than anything, and shifted himself forward, out of his seat and over to John so that he was crouching precariously in front of him. He reached up and wrapped his long arms around John’s shaking shoulders. Ran his fingers down John’s back and around in circles. When John leaned into him, he put his lips to John’s hair. The position was awkward, but Sherlock found he didn’t care in the slightest.  
  
    John wasn’t silent any more; he was making an odd, quiet, high-pitched noise that sounded like he was fighting his own vocal chords. Then he was speaking, murmuring harshly into Sherlock’s neck, his words catching together.  
  
    “I missed you…so much, Sherlock. I was dead. I was _dead_. And I thought…I thought…I called you a — ” _Oh._  
  
    “A machine.” Of course. Then the falsified suicide. _Guilt._ Sherlock hadn’t considered that, had chosen his course of action long before those words had ever passed John’s lips. John was keening again, struggling with words.  
  
    “I — blamed myself, Sherlock. There wasn’t a day you were gone when I didn’t wonder. If I hadn’t — if I’d done better — ”  
  
    Sherlock needed to stop this right now. He pulled John even closer, holding him tightly, shifting so that his chin sat atop John’s hair. John was in danger of toppling onto the floor, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him. John’s mouth was mashed into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, and he fell quiet.  
  
    “ _No._ ” He said it as forcefully at he could. “There was nothing — _no_ , John. You were always…you always kept me from thinking like that. Before you — arrived — maybe. Maybe once. But not since you. _No_.” His chest was heaving a bit. John’s too. They breathed together for a moment. Sherlock felt a shift under him, and then John’s arms, reaching over his shoulders, wrapping around his neck. It hurt, but Sherlock didn’t think John could feel the welts on his shoulders through his three layers of clothing and bandages, and those arms were warm and sturdy and _John_.  
      
    John spoke again, his words muffled in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, his voice still unsteady.  
  
    “There were so many things I’d wished I’d said…before you died. And then I never got the chance.”  
  
    “Say them now.”  
  
    John made a small, broken noise, shaking his head in mute refusal. Because of his position, it wasn’t unlike a nuzzle. When he fell still again, Sherlock realized that John’s lips were pushing softly against his neck, and shivered a little despite the fire and the warmth of their embrace. He decided, suddenly, to steal himself one small gift while they were holding each other like this, and carefully inclined his head again to press his own lips against the side of John’s inclined head. John was separated from his neck by the movement, but once Sherlock had placed his kiss, he felt John tilt his head up just a bit, and those lips met with his skin again.  
  
     _Impossible — not impossible improbable — improbable but possible. Possible. Happening. True._ The air shifted between them. The emptiness that had been eating Sherlock from the inside out since he’d first seen John across that busy restaurant was suddenly filled with light. Every part of him was mourning the past two years and singing the present, and it was too much feeling and he didn’t know what to do. John, fortunately, did. He pulled away, just far enough so that his hands snaked from behind Sherlock’s back onto his neck, so that when Sherlock looked up, their eyes met. Sherlock could cry with how handsome he was, despite the terrible mustache. And then there was John’s right hand, tenderly cupping Sherlock’s left cheek. He leaned into it automatically, and John tilted his head the other way, and leaned in, and then their lips were touching and the hair on John’s upper lip was tickling Sherlock’s nose and Sherlock felt like his soul was on fire.  
  
While he memorized as many of the sensations — touch, taste, smell, sound — of their kiss as he could, John’s hands were everywhere, tugging him up onto the chair with him, dragging down his sides, gripping his arse and tugging him fully onto his lap. It was _fantastic_. Sherlock tried to mimic John’s activity with his own hands, running them down his front and around, but gave it up after a moment and simply brought them to gently hold John by the neck and jaw so that he could focus completely on the way his tongue felt against John’s tongue, against his teeth, up to feel the ridges on his palate and around, down to push experimentally at the well beneath his tongue.  
  
With their bodies pressed so closely together, Sherlock could feel the outline of John’s cock through his trousers, pushing up against the underside of his thigh and growing steadily more erect as their kiss deepened. He realized that he was hard, too — how long had it been since _that_ had happened in the presence of another person? — and that his own erection was pressed gently against the plane of John’s stomach. It had grown softer in his absence, but it was pleasant to push against. Yielding. Sherlock heard a gentle moan in the air, and had no idea who had produced it. Everything was hazy. It was impossible to tell where he began and ended, his edges and consciousness blending together with John. _John._ He was everywhere. It felt as though every muted wish that Sherlock had suppressed during their friendship, had desperately dreamed of during their separation, was coming true, all in this moment. It was simultaneously too much and not enough.  
  
John, perhaps, felt the same way, because he was pulling away. Sherlock swayed a little bit, his body so quickly grown unused to staying upright on its own. He focused his eyes unsteadily onto John’s open face, let them trace the lines of his brow (relaxed), his cheeks (flushed), his lips (swollen). Finally he brought his gaze up to examine John’s eyes. He had always thought them quite beautiful, in a muted and subtle sort of way — much like their possessor. They were dark in the dim light of the dying fire. Even so, Sherlock could tell that the pupils were blown wide. _Desire._ To confirm, he shifted his right hand just enough to place his first two fingers against John’s jugular vein. _Elevated heart-rate._ He could, of course, feel plenty of evidence of John’s arousal pressing up from below him, but there was something satisfying, beautiful about knowing it was being pumped through John’s entire being. They were both breathing heavily, John’s thumb making lazy circles on Sherlock’s thigh, and he was starting to wonder why John had paused things in the first place when he finally spoke.  
  
“Sherlock.” It came out a bit hoarse.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Sherlock, I — I want…” John let out a slow, shuddery breath. Tipped forward a bit, falling through Sherlock’s hands at his jaw and resting his forehead against Sherlock’s chest. Without thinking, Sherlock brought his arms to wrap around John’s back. To keep him close. He thought he felt a small huff of laughter pass through the gaps in his straining shirt.  
  
“What? What do you — want, John?”  
  
“God…I don’t know if you even _do_ this.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“‘It’s all for transport,’ you said to me. That’s what you said. And I want — but you don’t — ” Ah. The problem revealed itself.  
  
“You think…I’m…inexperienced.”  
  
“Yeah. No. I just… _do_ you?”  
  
“Sometimes. I would, with you.” John stiffened in Sherlock’s arms. He was pulling back, now, pulling away and gaping a bit up into Sherlock’s vision. “Problem?”  
  
“No. No, I’m just — I didn’t _know_. No, that’s…that’s good.” Sherlock wanted to laugh, but he was too nervous. He gave a smirk, though. Shaky, probably. The best he could do given the circumstances.  
  
“So. What was it that you wanted?”  
  
“Ah. God. _Anything._ I just — I just…I need you.” This last was said at barely a whisper. The words seemed to escape John’s mouth of their own accord. A rosy blush was creeping out from underneath his collar. _Embarrassment._ It was nothing to be embarrassed about, of course. Sherlock needed John, too, needed him as he had never believed himself capable of needing anyone. Funny, how far away he’d had to go to realize it. He felt a wave of possession wash over him, and leaned in close to rumble directly into John’s ear.  
  
“I have an idea.” He heard John’s breath hitch underneath him. Without letting him pause to think, Sherlock scooted back out of John’s embrace and onto the floor. John was loose and compliant, as drunk as Sherlock judging by the bleary way he was looking down at him. For a breath, they were still — John splayed comfortably back in his seat, Sherlock looking up at him. Firelight washing over it all. Because he was drunk, Sherlock knew he had to focus, _focus_ on every detail so that he would never forget it. He was carefully locking the memory in a golden case in his mind palace when John shifted in his chair, bringing him back to reality.  
  
John was looking down at him, eyes heavy lidded and dark, a smile tugging at his lips that reminded Sherlock of all the times John had called him _brilliant._ It was a worthwhile sight. Sherlock ghosted his hands along the outside of John’s ankles, his touch growing firmer as he allowed himself a steady journey up John’s calves, his knees, and finally along his strong, muscled thighs. As he moved in, John widened his knees to make space for him. Sherlock’s thumbs bumped gently against John’s sturdy leather belt, and suddenly he couldn’t wait a moment longer. He tugged at the strap, hastily releasing leather from metal. Pulled at the button of John’s trousers. When his fingers found his zip, Sherlock felt a steadying hand on his cheek. He realized that his hands had been shaking. He looked up at John, not knowing how to express all the things he was feeling, and there was John, smiling, leaning down towards him, capturing his lips in a gentle kiss. _Yes._ When he pulled away, Sherlock’s hands were steadier, pulling the zip open slowly, slowly. Trying to make this moment last as long as he could. Once the tab reached the seam in the fly, Sherlock released his breath. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. With a caress, he ran his hands outwards to John’s hips, slipped his fingers into his waistband. John lifted his hips and Sherlock tugged his trousers down to his ankles, then realized belatedly he’d forgotten about shoes. Despite his uncoordinated fingers, he managed the knots and slipped them off John’s feet. Sherlock fingered the hem of his socks for a moment. _No. It’ll be cold once the fire runs down._ He left them, settling for tugging off John’s trousers and carefully folding them and placing them aside before looking up. John’s pants were tented. Without preamble, Sherlock dove face first into the bulge, sighing and nuzzling and smelling. The scent of him made Sherlock lightheaded. He kissed John’s cock open mouthed through the fabric, and heard John exhale unsteadily above him. _Right_. It had been a long time since the last time he’d done this, but it was like…was “riding a bike” the idiom? Sherlock didn’t know. He’d never ridden a bicycle in his life. Irrelevant. He ripped John’s pants off with gusto, but had to stop again for a moment to catch his breath at the _sight_ of him.  
  
He’d long ago deduced — from the way he walked, from stolen glances when he was in his towel after a shower — that John was well-endowed. But it was one thing to deduce it and quite another to see it for himself. He was, Sherlock thought, roughly equivalent in length to the span of his own hand. Not too thick, though, which was nice. His cock curved pleasantly, gently upwards and his foreskin was pulling back to reveal just a hint of ruddy head.  
  
Tempting as it was, Sherlock didn’t start with John’s cock. Instead, he planted a series of kisses and gentle nips along the inside of John’s thighs, which opened to allow him better access. He kept his hands busy, alternately kneading the sensitive areas on John’s inner thighs on either side of his perineum and up, up to his lower stomach to press and touch. With his mouth he spent a moment worrying the skin on John’s upper inner thigh, just below where his legs met. Then turned towards his cock and buried his nose into the wiry curls at its base. Inhaled. Exhaled. Shifted, leaned in, and planted a kiss right where cock met the rest of his body. As he opened his lips and finally, finally reached out his tongue to taste, he heard John draw a breath above him. Sherlock hummed with satisfaction at this reaction. He drew his lips and tongue down the length of John’s cock, then swung his head to the other side and started again. There was so much data to take in. So much space to explore. Sherlock had always enjoyed doing this, but it had never been so thrilling as with _John_.  
  
Sherlock licked a wide sideways stripe up the bottom of John’s cock from base to tip before re-angling and doing the same from the top, tip to base. Then back up along the bottom, left side this time, and when he reached the tip he wrapped his lips around it decadently. He began to slowly work his way down, and bob back, taking a little more each time and digging his thumbs into that space just on the inside of John’s hipbones. He could hear John’s breathing growing rapid above him. As the tip of John’s cock reached Sherlock’s uvula, he had to tear his attention away from that thrilling sound to focus on his own breathing. Down and _out_ , up and _in_. After a few moments he’d established a rhythm, and the danger of gagging seemed to have passed. He had taken in a good fifteen centimeters of John’s cock, but he wanted more. He wanted to be unforgettable. And so he slid back, until just the tip of John’s cock remained in his mouth, took a deep breath through his nose, and plunged. Down, down, down, until his mouth was full of John, and then more than full, and he could feel John at the back of his throat and hear John gasp above his head and his nose was in John’s hair again but so, so different from this angle, and he just sat there for a moment, breathing, until pulling back again, slowly, slowly. When he was about halfway off John’s cock he slipped forward again, faster this time and with more pressure, more suction.  
  
“Oh my god, oh my _god_ , Sherlock — ” He could feel John’s hands winding through his hair, tightening. He swatted at them, hoping that John would understand. He did. His grip loosened, and Sherlock felt two fingers brushing his curly fringe away from his eyes. Sherlock opened them and looked up into John’s face. His expression was electrifying, and Sherlock felt himself emitting a low, urgent, possessive hum around John’s cock.  
  
“ _Yes — god._ ” John threw his head backward again with a soft _thump_ against the back of his chair. Sherlock paused for a moment to memorize the image, then closed his eyes again. It was all so _good_. He slipped off John’s cock, letting his left hand take over as he placed more kisses between his legs, slid up several centimeters, and then placed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to John’s balls. He stroked John firmly as he gently, gently sucked the soft skin of them between his lips, taking care to shield his teeth. John had stopped talking, was only breathing now. Deep breaths, but Sherlock could feel them gradually quickening under his ministrations. He wanted his cock again, sent one hand to gently massage John’s ballsack and the other to grip at his thigh and _press_ just there, there, and then two fingers to nudge at his perineum, as he caught John’s cock again between his lips and thrust himself down, down, all the way to its base.  
  
John was coming apart above him. The sensation was almost too much for _Sherlock_ , but he knew — he had calculated this — he was overwhelming John in the best way possible. John’s breathing was tight, moans alternating and intermingling with his shaky inhalations. And so Sherlock sucked _harder_ , gave _more_ pressure, moved _faster_ , until — _yes_.  
  
“Sh — Sherlock, I — oh, god, I’m going to — ” Again, John’s hands found their way into Sherlock’s curls again, this time to push him off. Again, Sherlock batted them away. The message was clear, and he swirled his tongue around and around the tip of John’s cock and bobbed and _sucked_ until John came with a choked cry, hot, bitter liquid erupting into Sherlock’s mouth. John’s hands limply combed through Sherlock’s curls as he bobbed up and down a couple more times, pumping the last droplets out. As he pulled off of John with a slick sound, he felt a stray drop of come run down one side of his chin. Sherlock swallowed  — _ugh, just as bad as he remembered_ —  and daintily wiped at the offending trickle with his ring finger, looking back up to see John’s reaction.  
  
John still hadn’t opened his eyes. He was completely limp in the chair, except for his heavy breathing. For a disappointed moment Sherlock feared he had fallen asleep. Of course, it had been lovely, but Sherlock was very, very hard. It wouldn’t be the first time he had satisfied a partner only to have to bring himself to climax with his own hand, but it was a bit… _disappointing_. Given the circumstances. After another twenty-six seconds, though, John was stirring. His eyes opened, Sherlock could see, and he was staring dazedly at the ceiling and talking to the air. No, talking to Sherlock.  
  
“Oh my god. Seriously, I — I’ve never. My hands and feet went _numb_ , Sherlock, I’ve never experienced…anything…”  
  
“Well.” Sherlock couldn’t help feeling a bit smug, and smirked even though John couldn’t see. It wasn’t the first time, but — “I’ve never gotten the feet as well, before.”  
  
John was laughing, that high pitched, almost desperate giggle that he only seemed to produce after a particularly strong adrenaline rush. “Oh. My. God. Sherlock…that’s. That was the most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened to me.” Sherlock could remember a similar conversation, years ago. Wanted, suddenly, to recapture the moment.  
  
“You invaded Afghanistan.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said, still giggling and short of breath. “Yeah. So you always remind me. Still. That wasn’t — wasn’t just me, though.” Something warm billowed up in Sherlock’s chest, and he surged up onto the chair. It was a bit odd to be fully clothed on top of a half-naked John, but he really couldn’t care less as he swept in and captured John in an open-mouthed kiss. John was slow to respond at first, but then gripped Sherlock around the backside and by the thigh and maneuvered him even closer. After a few moments John pulled back, and looked up at Sherlock in…it took a moment to recognize. _Adoration_. Had to be.  
  
When he spoke, it was lower than his typical tone. _Arousal?_ No. Seduction.  
  
“And how about you, hmm?” He murmured, running his hand from Sherlock’s thigh to the bulge at the front of his trousers. “What would you like to do with this?”  
  
Sherlock knew _exactly_ what he would like to do. Had imagined it — tried not to imagine it — so many times. But he didn’t trust himself to speak when John was palming him through his trousers. He did try.  
  
“I — John, I — ”  
  
John pulled him down with a hand gripping the back of Sherlock’s neck, so that his mouth was level with Sherlock’s ear.  
  
“Do you want me to suck you off?” That would be very nice, but Sherlock shook his head imperceptibly. “Do you want…” Sherlock could feel John swallow deliberately, pull back, saw him looking up into his face with a bleary-eyed, lazy smile.  
  
“You want to _fuck_ me, don’t you?”  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock breathed. He couldn’t believe this was happening, but _yes, yes_ , a thousand times yes. Would it be allowed?  
  
“Alright. Alright. Yeah, that sounds…good.” _Yes._  
  
“Really? You’re sure?”  
  
“Yes. Definitely.” _Inconceivable. Incredible._  
  
“Er. Bed…bedroom?”  
  
“Alright,” John said with a chuckle, “But you’ll have to get off me first.”  
  
The trip to the bedroom was a short one, full of stumbling and laughing and kissing against walls. It wasn’t until they were moving that Sherlock’s body remembered how much scotch he had drunk, but John was similarly giggly and unbalanced, and it was all fine, and all _marvelous_ and _perfect_. When they got through the door and into Sherlock’s bedroom, he spun John around and pushed him down onto the bed, standing on the floor and leaning over him, holding him down by the wrists and kissing him soundly. John struggled a bit, and Sherlock loosened his grip, retreating.  
  
“Sherlock, Sherlock,” John was saying, laughing and smiling and shaking his head from side to side.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your _clothes._ ”  
  
“What about them?”  
  
“They’re _on_ , you daft git. Take them off and come fuck me already.” _Oh_. Sherlock’s hands immediately moved to obey the order, though he was dismayed to realize that they were shaking just a bit from nerves of all things as he fumbled with his buttons. John had seen him in various states of undress before, of course, but he had never witnessed the transition. And now, Sherlock realized, as he chanced a quick glance up, he was _staring_. Drinking it all in. Sherlock felt a deep blush course through the capillaries in his cheeks, and then spread down his neck and onto his chest. _Ridiculous_.  
  
“ _Gorgeous_.”  
  
Sherlock blinked, felt his mouth fall open.  
  
“Wh- _what?”_  
  
“You’re bloody gorgeous, Sherlock.” John’s words slurred together just a little, and he wriggled lazily on the bedspread. “The most gorgeous man in the world. Ah, god. Please. Come kiss me.” Sherlock shucked off his shirt, quickly stepped out of his trousers, and crawled up onto the bed and over John’s prone form to obey. He took a moment to pull John’s sweater and shirt up over his head and tossed them blindly to one side. And then, they were kissing again.  
  
It was good, at this angle, Sherlock thought. A bit of a strain on the arms to hold himself up, but that was easily ignorable in the face of _John Watson in his bed_.  Now when their chests touched it was skin-to-skin, like fire wherever they met. John’s hands reached lazily around Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock just barely remembered to bat his hands away. No good if he felt the wounds, the dried blood. Lucky that he hadn’t noticed the deep brown smears on Sherlock’s shirt when he’d removed it. He guided the hands to somewhere safe: his sides, the small mound of his arse. John chuckled and complied, squeezing gently. Sherlock allowed his hips to lower, so that his heretofore ignored erection rubbed indulgently over John’s now-flaccid cock through his pants, which he had forgotten to remove. Even this felt electrifying. Part of Sherlock wished that John had a matching erection, but he couldn’t expect that kind of turnaround in a man John’s age. And anyway, he did seem to be thoroughly enjoying himself regardless, kissing and touching with a lazy post-orgasmic enthusiasm that reminded Sherlock of what he’d just done — what he could still taste on his tongue.  
  
As Sherlock deepened their kiss, he began to rock gently against John. He was so focused on the movements of their tongues against one another, he didn’t realize at first when John reached down to tug at his pants. When he did notice, it was with a thrill — John couldn’t do much at that angle, but Sherlock relished the feeling of his pants sliding several centimeters down his arse. Then a surprise, as John’s hands moved between their bodies and worked the elastic up and over his cock, freeing it. And John was _touching_ him. His movements were slow and restricted by the proximity of their bodies, but his grip was firm. Old calluses not-quite-worn-away, hands small but deft and strong, squeezing with a gentle pressure and pulling, tugging at him —  
  
“Sherlock, Sherlock, where’ve you gone?” Sherlock opened his eyes with a start, and realized he’d completely stopped kissing John, was boosted up on his elbows and knees. John was looking up at him with a bemused expression.  
  
“I — sorry. Just a lot…a-lot-to-take-in,” Sherlock panted with a bit of a rush, leaning forward again and kissing John. One kiss on his lips, then one on his strong jawline, his neck, one on each nipple, tongue licking out experimentally (John releasing his grip as Sherlock’s cock passed out of reach), three in the fuzz on his chest, down, down over his stomach, at the rim of his belly button, following his hip bones. When Sherlock’s legs extended off the bed past the knee, he pushed himself to standing and bent to tug his pants the rest of the way off, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor and then stood, surveying John, who was staring up at him again.  
  
“God, you’re a sight for sore eyes, aren’t you? I thought — I thought you were dead, and now you’re not. You’re like a — like a — ”  
  
Sherlock quickly pulled himself over across John again and silenced him with a kiss. He didn’t want to think about the time they’d spent apart. He just wanted to focus on now, more than anything in the world.  
  
When he lowered his hips, he found that John’s cock _was_ beginning to harden again. It made his hips thrust involuntarily, and as their cocks rubbed together with no barriers, Sherlock heard himself release a small moan. This was fantastic, and it was growing difficult to think, which was thrilling in its own way. He buried his face in the crook of John’s neck with a huff, and then inhaled through his nose as he bit and sucked on the the smooth skin there.  
  
“Sherlock, Sherlock.” _God_ , how that sounded. Why twice? It sounded desperate and needy and there was nothing, _nothing_ Sherlock craved more in the world than John Watson saying his name over and over again. “I want you — this is good but could you please, please fuck me?” Sherlock stilled completely. _Yes_.  
  
Sherlock looked about the room. Lube. Lube? He hadn’t had sex for ages, obviously hadn’t prepared for this possibility since his return, but he should have — yes — pushed himself off of John for a moment to go to his dresser, upon which sat a jar of liquefied coconut oil. He usually just used it as a bit of moisturizer, or in his hair to tame his curls, but it was perfect for this too, he thought, crawling back onto the bed with his prize. John bent his knees, feet flat on the mattress and legs splayed, exposing his arse to Sherlock, who wasn’t able to resist leaning in and kissing him, nose by his perineum, lips pressed into the inside of his right cheek. _Wonderful._ Not the most scientific of observations, but the truest one Sherlock could think of. Then he realized something with a drop in his stomach, and jerked his head back.  
  
“John. John, I haven’t — I haven’t got a — ”  
  
“Just fuck me, Sherlock, please. I _want_ you to. You’re clean, aren’t you?”  
  
“I — yes, but — ”  
  
“Me too. I trust you. _Please._ ”  
  
Sherlock backed off again, unable to say anything in response to this unfathomable display of trust, instead focusing on the movements of his body. He twisted the lid off the jar and dipped two fingers in before setting it on the beside table, open and within reach. Then he brought his hand to John’s arse, gently moving both fingers in tight, slow circles around the pucker of John’s entrance.  
  
After probing for a moment, Sherlock slowly curled one finger inside of John and could hear his breathing hitch. So tight. _How could he be so tight? Could he_ —  
  
“Er, John. Have you…have you done this before?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, but not in _years_ , not since before — before I met you. Couldn’t really, after that. Tried, but I only wanted…wanted you. So I stopped.”  
  
 _Right._ Something else to tuck away into his mind palace. For when he could think more slowly, play those words on repeat on the old cassette player. He withdrew his finger, added more lube, and reinserted himself a little faster this time. Then a second finger, slowly, slowly, and more coconut oil, and then faster. His long fingers had disappeared just past the second knuckle when he found John’s prostate, as evidenced by an involuntary “Oh! Oh, my god,” that escaped into the cool air of the room. He wanted to fuck John terribly, couldn’t possibly wait, but _no, no, don’t hurt him_ , so he just took a shuddering breath and scissored his fingers apart within him, slowly, slowly, and then slicked his _third_ finger, better safe than sorry, and got it in with the other two. John was breathing heavily and trying to relax and sweating and moaning, and it was really too much.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Y-yes?”  
  
“Do you think…you’re ready. For me.”  
  
“Yes, _god_ Sherlock. _Please_.”  
  
Keeping his left hand buried within John and rocking just a little, he reached out and dipped his right hand back into the jar and took a moment to stroke himself back to full hardness, and then gently pulled his fingers out of John, instead lining up the head of his cock with John’s hole. Glancing up, Sherlock found that John was staring at him with a fiery lust in his eyes. He couldn’t look away, and pushed in by feel and with the guidance of his hand, staring, staring into John’s steady gaze as he slowly sunk deeply within him. When he was halfway in, John’s eyes closed with a flutter and his head lolled backwards with a moan. Then he was flush with John’s arse, balls against his skin, and _inside_ him, surrounded by him, and Sherlock couldn’t think, and that was _incredible_ , and he pulled out and slowly pushed in again, trying to match the angle he’d found with his fingers, and yes, John’s tight expression loosened and he cried out as Sherlock found his prostate, and Sherlock was thrusting, thrusting, and John’s hands were scrabbling for purchase against his shoulders, and everything, _everything_ was perfect. Moans filled the air and they were John’s, and they were Sherlock’s, and they were wordless because there were no _words_ for this, and as they cried out into each others mouths Sherlock was moving faster, faster, and harder, harder, and they fell outside of time and Sherlock never wanted to stop.  
  
Eventually, or maybe quickly, Sherlock felt that familiar building in his the pit of his stomach, in his balls, and he was asking and John was saying _inside me_ , and suddenly Sherlock could see nothing, then only stars as bright as the sun, and he could hear a distant shout of ecstasy — whose voice? And then warmth all around him, and nothing. After a moment his mind slowly clicked back on. Who was he? Where? Lazy questions floated through his head and he wasn’t concerned with them at all. Eventually his vision came back. _John._ He was sprawled all over his small, sturdy figure. Then his own name returned to him. Sherlock. He pulled himself slowly out of John — he was so sensitive it hurt to stay inside him and feel the tight press around his spent cock — then draped himself back over John’s prone form. He could feel John’s cock, hard, pushing against his stomach and with his brain foggy from orgasm he couldn’t think of what to do about _that_.  
  
“John, your — you’re — ” he said uselessly, palming awkwardly at the space where their bodies met. John batted his hand away.  
  
“’S’fine.”  
  
“But — ”  
  
“Sherlock…I’ve already had one mind-blowing orgasm tonight…don’t think I could survive another. S’ _fine_. You’re incredible. Come here.” Sherlock relaxed, flopping off of John to one side and lazily snaking an arm over his chest. And then John’s arm was reaching under Sherlock’s neck, around his shoulders, pulling Sherlock so that his head rested on John’s chest. He could feel the rise and fall as his lungs took in and expelled air. The steady _thu-thum_ of his heartbeat. _Safe._ It was the happiest Sherlock could ever remember feeling. Tomorrow, they would talk about Mary, arrange for John to move back in. Tomorrow. Sherlock’s mind churned out only one more thought before he drifted into a daze. _Everything is going to be the way it should be. John will be with me, in every way this time. And I will never leave him, ever again._  
  



End file.
